Plumb going dry

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

I haven't done anything at all interesting in the past week. The gas hot water tank shat itself and we had no hot water for over a week, so we all got to see the inside of a few of other people's bathrooms whilst begging ablution facilities from those who did have hot water. The best part of 2 grand later, our new hot water tank was fitted and all nice and hot (well, what's the point of cold, hmmm?) when the greater pressure of the new system blew the hot tap fitting apart in the top floor "kitchen". Then all the water had to be turned off and the mess mopped up.

Currently, that fitting is plugged off while we make a few modifications to the existing pipes and fit some new hardware up there, making it more practically usable in the long term. This means we finally have the freedom (yes that's what it feels like after so long) to stand nekkid in a hot shower and luxuriate in hot water for as long as one wants. I didn't realise how much I loved a nice hot shower until I couldn't have one on demand.

Tonight, I made a yummy chicken curry with poppadoms for dinner. Not a bit of it was left over and everyone cleaned their plates with gusto.

Two hours later, I was emptying my stomach regularly for an hour or so with much greater gusto when something in the dinner (I'm picking it's the poppadoms) disagreed with my cast iron constitution and finally sent me crawling into bed with a basin, moaning and groaning like the broken arsed sad thing I was at the time. Hours later, I don't feel sick any more but I feel damned delicate and in need of pampering and coffee. Seeing as how the kids had all gone to bed by the time I woke up, I've made my own coffee and gone without the personal pampering a good coffee-making child can give.

Oh, such a sad existence. I've gone right off poppadoms after only one taste. Thank the Goddess, Ads is on exam week so isn't off to school at sparrow's fart in the cold every day and I can have a few sleep ins. All this stress just knocks me flat.

Burning desire

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

The snails are at it again, bonking that is and Mrs S has laid a third lot of eggs. God help us.

The butternuts are about ripe; the gardens are almost weeded and pruned; the bath just needs some black polythene, rocks and water to transform into a pond and some fish to make it a fish pond. The gas hot water cylinder is on strike; the mongrel fucking neighbours on the next section over cut our macadamia tree off without asking everyone; there are few MS'y things I'm attempting to come to terms with and I'm not Happy.

I'm not any of the other six dwarves, either, but H could be when she slouches. We don't call her our Evil Little Circus Midget because she looks good in bright colours, you know - we call her that because she's Grumpy.

Being short was just a bonus.

Sticky

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

I'm going to be a Nana.

I don't quite know when because the mother-to-be hasn't told me and indeed, doesn't even know nor care herself and you know how there is never any definite date for these little occurrences because babies usually arrive when they are ready, but I have to say I'm not particularly surprised given the amount of time they have been spending joined at the proverbial pelvis.

Anyway, here is a pic



That's my babies, there in that pinky thing stuck on the glass. There is another one just like it stuck to the glass 8 inches away from that one and some time in the next 2-4 weeks they will hatch out, drop into the tank and either get gobbled up by the waiting guppies or start growing.

I'm not quite sure what I am going to do with tons of baby apple/mystery snails... and no, eating them is not an option.

Watch the S car go.

**pulls out a fresh tissue, wipes**

They have hardly stopped fucking, today. Or is that, they have hardly fucking stopped, today.

Either way, I'm think a short, but potentially sweet life could be had as a snail next time around. Beats the hell out of being a fat, desexed and pampered cat, which is what I was planning.

Just...

The only difference is the pampering, you realise, and I'll have to find a way to handle getting wet.

Getting screwed

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

I bought a couple of golden apple snails for the fish tank last weekend. I just wanted something a little more interesting than a guppy to look at, you know? But they are cool and sprint around the tank on their feet, doing all sorts of strange things. We've had the little brown snails in there for ages but they are really boring despite their prolific breeding.

I'd never really thought about sexy snails and what they do to get their funk on, but sort of thought baby golden snails would be nice. A bit of Googling suggested, not being hermaphrodites they needed a Mummy and a Daddy snail to perform snail intercourse to fertilise a bunch of eggs to be laid on the glass above the water line. I knew about the eggs - the Mystery snails used to leave them all over Mum's big tropical stock plant tanks back in my fish farm-teenagehood, dotting the concrete like crispy, pink berry fruits. But I was ignorant of their reproductive necessities.

Our snails have filled in every possible visual blank imaginable - Snail Sex 101



They fuck for over an hour a day. Every day.

Who would have thought snails had it so good, eh?

Cheesy

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

I haven't been feeling myself for a few weeks and spent a bit of time playing with Facebook applications instead of blogging boringly if methodically without motivation.

If you are already on Facebook, you will know about applications and if you aren't, you probably don't give a shit anyway, but these little gems are fun. Why, just this past week, they have managed to point out what sort of Dwarf I would have been -



Grumpy. Lack of excrement.



What sort of brain I have -



Fence-sitter.



How smart I am -



*cocks one eyebrow"


Where I should live -




I don't think so, Tim.


What book character I should have been (like wtf??)



um...


Then I found proof I was sane



*does a little dance*


and rounded it out with a really big woodpecker.




Because I could.

PS - Oh and my eyes are fine, just a little optic hypertension creeping in but I've buggered my shoulder replacing the chain that broke on the swing seat under me and Ads the other day.

It was very funny at the time :0)

Dork

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

I was sitting out in the Bahama Hut a few minutes ago thinking how pleasant it was out there at 11pm with the night sounds being blown around by the wind and the gentle cracking of the possum crashing around in the bamboo and I got to thinking, as you do, what the Hell is so fascinating about a clump of bamboo when it has no fruit on it? Why live in a barren waste just to trot across to the neighbours to nosh on their avocados? Why not live in the avocado tree at the neighbours? Cos, like, I was stuck in that bamboo for fully 5 minutes the other day and I can quite confidently say, I didn't see anything exciting about it at all.

Of course, this not seeing might be because my eyes are a bit naff, that ridge of high pressure invading my eyeballs that I was yapping about a few weeks back but it's more likely that the possum is just a dork...


Dork - slang for penis, amongst other things. Sometimes an affectionate nickname, sometimes spat out in frustration. But I bet this takes the cake for Dorkdom. It came to me in my mail (thanks, Shane) and just goes to show how big a dork someone can really be.

Dear Diary

Tomorrow I am going to see the eye specialist about the pressure in my eye balls that is much too high to be normal but has existed too long without making me go blind to be glaucoma.

It was noted in the eye man's report in 2001 when MS first came to live with me on a permanent basis.

I want my MRI, dammit.

:0(

Crochet, a dying craft?

**pulls out a fresh towel**

My Nana didn't knit or crochet, but if she had, I don't think they would have looked like these...



This is my, er, favourite. I think.



Certainly something a little different to give that beloved new grand child, eh.

PS - spot what's wrong with the co-joined teddies...

Lookalikes

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

Our old girl had her birthday the other day - Nushie is 9, definitely a graceful old lady.



Looking at her, I got to thinking how right that old saying might be, the one so many people have trotted out and giggled at in the years we have been the owners of a mighty Shar Pei.

"Dogs look like their owners".

Oh I just laugh and laugh every time someone (usually the same friend) trots that one out but maybe they have seen a truth I missed until tonight - we do have some resemblances...

• She is short. So am I.
• She a natural brunette. So am I (underneath whatever dye I'm wearing, anyway).
• She is stiff and sore after lying or sitting down, so am I.
• She's as ugly as sin to those who value outward appearance over worth, and so am I.
• She is old and wrinkled, need of a face lift and mostly taken for granted. So am I.
• She is resigned to spending her days in useless sleepy boredom and so am I (almost).
• We both like riding in the car, we both have trouble getting to the loo in time, we both have a facial hair problem and we've both been spayed. 

• Best of all, we both get told to move our fat arse.

And what more could a fat, old bitch want on her birthday than scones, cake, pikelets with jam and 3 rides in the car.

Speaking of middle age, I thought sex in the Middle Ages was Nookie in the Norty Forties, but it looks like I was wrong...

Hot

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

This young lady, Adele has a wonderful bluesy, blowsy voice.



I love it.

I'm sorry to say I was not familiar with the song, even though it's been covered by more artists than you've had hot crumpet (well, than I have, anyway), nor did I realise it was a Dylan song and there are some excellent versions of it on YouTube, but I'm also sorry to say the worst version is definitely the one done by Bob. No-one can murder a terrific Dylan song like Bob.

*waits for Flattie to untangle his knackers and deliver a withering broadside*

I'm dead meat now, aren't I?

Thank God the car was repaired today; they can put my box on a trailer behind it and tow me up to the Crem. Speaking of boxes, I still haven't finished designing mine. I'm still leaning towards flaming currency, though. After all, everything in life is some form of currency, isn't it? God knows, we seem to never stop paying, one way or another...

Mongrel fucking cars

**pulls out a fresh kitchen towel roll**

I don't like my car. It failed a WOF this morning on front brake pads, not unexpected cos it's been a bit spongy and soft for a wee while and I'm a hard braker lol. I didn't mention the rough CV joints on accelerated turning, and neither did the WOF guy so maybe they aren't bad, just annoying, but tonight the transmission shat itself. By that, I mean it stopped moving and started grinding when I was backing up at the vege shop. It didn't want to go forwards, either. Going via reverse to get to park was interesting - the grinding got louder. Starting in Park was fine, until one exited via Reverse and then everything ground and it still went nowhere. It even grinds in Neutral.

Now it's parked up at the vege shop locked in their yard, me and the dog walked home (not far but too far for me *sigh*) and I'm kicking myself that I remembered to lock the bitch up. Maybe tomorrow I could be claiming the insurance money cos some shits burnt it out, being parked in the dark, isolated area it is. My insurance still covers me for $2500 agreed value, it won't be worth the cost of a new tranny, the car's only worth $800 on a good day.

Up side?

I could have been in the 5 o'clock rush, or way over the other side of the Bridge, or somewhere on the open road - Open Road might not have been pretty.... Instead I was 300 metres from home and a 1km tow to my mechanic.

It did it BEFORE I spent $150 on it on Friday to get the new brake pads fitted.

I have the Corolla to use as necessary, but being a manual my legs aren't too good for too long.

I have so far managed to withstand the impulse to drive the Corolla down there and unlock it.

It just caps off a really, really crappy week.

Determined

**rummages for a new box**

I wonder sometimes, as a somewhat uncommitted believer in pre-birth spiritual self-determination, whether some of those self-help, spiritual awareness books might just be pulling the wool. Just a tad.

I think of it like this...

All these books leading us to Spiritual Awareness (a bargain at only $44.99 or two for $90) speak of healing the mind and soul, using the power of positive thinking to bring to us that which we would most like to have (Love, money, fame etc), paying it forward when giving back to the One, the Universe in return for the bounty It provides.

All good stuff, yes?

But, like, what if we really did choose this existence to further our spiritual learning as we reap/sow Karma with gay abandon and encounter endless unhealed pain and sickness, unanswered wants and needs, warts and all? Giving up would be the smart thing to do, yes? Cos we already chose it so we can't change it when we don't like it.

Then either we are some seriously fucked up bunnies, or I want some of the drugs those enlightened authors are on, and Mick Jagger, too. He reckoned that you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you might find you get what you need.

Right.

Maybe it's all in the drugs I am on...

Of course, if you want to delve into the whole "One" issue, you could always read 'One' by Richard Bach. He had the best drugs of all.

Oh God yes.

Wild, baby

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

When I was younger, one of my most favourite books was Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.



Now, it's a movie.



If only we could all be like Max and come home to a hot supper and a world all set to rights. Wouldn't that be cool

UPDATE: hehe look, some poor sad arsed cunt had to go an nobble the pic of the book. FFS I've just given it a bloody plug, must suck to be them lol

Update the Update 24/4: And now they've gone and put it back again *snort*

Yes, well, um

**hides the tissues**



and shopping bags for men...

Sometimes even I am rendered speechless... but this sort of made up for it

Well, well, well

**pulls back the cobwebs**

What can I say? The days are inching past with no letup nor pause and neither do the MS bits. The hands are still numb, the will is still there but the legs are still weak, the days are still too long and the nights are endless yet still I accomplish little of note.

It's sort of like being in prison, I suspect, but without the under floor heating.

These guys are in prison



and check out the chick lol

I haven't mowed the lawn lately or gardened barely at all in weeks, the last lot of the summer veg is sitting in the fridge for the second night waiting to be cooked and I need more MS-sized nana naps.

Well, a girl has to power down occasionally if she's going to keep looking her best. Eh.

Notes to self

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

Occasionally, despite randomly chronicling my MSy shit in the blog, there are things I put in to do with my current state that I should be writing down for me, for future reference. Like a diary of my condition, cos I forget things and then go blank at the Doc's when he says "So how long has THIS been going on?" sort of thing.

So, I found a crude little text box generator to add a speshul Dear Diary box so I can keep track of where I'm at, where I've been and, more importantly, where I'm going and it's randomly coming to a text box near you.

If I remember.

It seems kind of fitting to introduce it on April Fools Day even if, every day, it's me that plays is the Fool :0)

Dear Diary

It's April 1st.
This is the new Dear Diary box. Get used to seeing it pop up occasionally. It will be filled to overflowing with Notes to Self.

Enjoy!

OK, that will do for now, you can go.

Dearly departed

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

My mother apparently told my father, when they got married, that he had better be resigned to only having daughters, coming as he was from a family of predominately girls. Second in a family of 7, he was the only surviving boy, his brother having died in infancy. Just him and Grandad with all dem wimminfolks.

And while Grandad might have produced a son as well as a daughter from his second marriage, by the time we were both born only having two daughters wasn't really unexpected.

I couldn't say that I knew he had a favourite sister, as I think they are all equally special to him for their own unique talents and personalities. I think their growing up spanning the Depression probably helped make the bonds that continue to tie the generations together across the families that make up The Family.

One of his sisters, Louise, had a fine talent for the spoken and written word. Throughout her life, she was surrounded by people of words - writers, singers, public figures, civil servants and the diplomatic community. As a young woman and the wife of a foreign diplomat, she lived in countries around the world and became a single mother to three young girls when her husband passed away. Later, once more as a wife, with History in her veins, she traveled to collate data on our Family Tree that produced several fantastic books.

As a mother, she buried one of the young women she'd raised and watched the other two spread their wings and take off to explore the world. She saw one become a mother in her turn.

Wife, mother, daughter, sister, grandmother, cousin and much respected and admired aunt; all these roles she fulfilled and fulfilled them admirably. Today, cancer took her from us.

Louise
31 of August, 1937 - 31st of March 2009.

What a dash, Louise.

Shout it out

**pulls out a fresh tissue and flaps it**

A big shout out, folks to the person from Melbourne, Australia who came to visit here today via this link.

They even make the same typos I do.

baaaaahaaaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaa

Help

**pulls out a fresh tissue**

I grew veges this year, started recycling and composting household scraps.

I thought that was a decent enough sop to the Greenies and self-sufficients but no, now I gotta go and MAKE stuff with the veges. In the kitchen and I don't DO kitchens and cooking stuff - that's Ads role.

So I made Pickle - recipe courtesy of Mrs Flattie.



God help me - it looks right, smells right and tastes pretty damned good. Don't tell Her Ladyship, she'll never let me live it down that she contributed to me spending time creating this stuff in the kitchen.

PS - I don't have to stomp my own grapes to make my own vinegar for making my own home-grown vege pickle as well, do I? Cos, like, that really ain't gonna happen. Uh huh.

PPS - I wonder what I can make with butternut...

Out of my tree again

**pulls out a box of fresh tissues**

We used to have a loquat tree. Mum planted it there, on the North boundary 20 odd years ago.

Now, we don't.



It had fire blight and a split creeping right down the very centre of the trunk from its mushy, bug infested crotch. Now we don't because Flattie very kindly chopped it down for me last weekend, leaving the trunk still intact. That way, it can live on as a garden sculpture, hosting a climber of some sort while protecting the baby Maple I planted beside its roots the same day.

Kill one, plant one - but make sure it's one that won't need bloody spraying every three weeks when it invades everything.

I had a wee meltdown last night, been coming on for a wee while and I've been sinking for days and then snap! the body said "no more and down you go for a sleep and some rest". So I did.

After I cooked everyone dinner.

I had a whole bunch of shit I was going to ladle out for you tonight and now I've forgotten it all.

I do some of my best better thinking in those quiet, inner resting times when I'm physically/mentally/emotionally putting my ducks in a line and preparing for the next onslaught by that tricky wee MonSter.

Keep your eyes open for a new feature coming to the blog soon. It'll just rivet ya.

With real rivets.